The Anthem of the End
by My5tic-Lali
Summary: The destruction of Xerxes did not begin with a bang. Or with a whimper. It didn't even begin with a scream. It began, of all things, with a smile.


The destruction of Xerxes did not begin with a bang. Or a whimper.

It didn't even begin with a scream.

It began, of all things, with a smile.

It began with the smile of a little, smoky creature who dwelled within a flask, a genius, a created being called a homunculus, who had so drastically changed Slave Number 23's life. It began with the stretched grin of a devious homunculus who had given Van Hohenheim a name, had given him knowledge and the possibilities he had longed for.

And with that smile came the black hands which reached for the sky as though it were their only salvation, came the crackling, swirling light which preyed on those gathered to see the king receive immortality. With that smile came Hoheneheim's realization that they had all been duped, all along. With that smile came the knowledge that the entire, ongoing efforts of the alchemists of Xerxes had only been for the homunculus' gain, to free the creature from the flask which was the singular restriction to its freedom.

And as Van Hohenheim watched the men he had grown up with choke on blood and fall, as Van Hohenheim was swallowed by the giant eye in the center of everything, as Van Hohenheim found his whole life to be a lie, the dwarf in the flask smiled.

And as a wave of destruction and crackling lightning expanded with the giant eye that would bring the homunculus his desire, as the wave of destruction ignored the screams of the people of Xerxes, as it blasted through the false-front of courage that the fathers who defended their families threw up, as it tore through their wives who huddled around their children, as it preyed on the weeping children who cried without knowing why things hurt, the dwarf in the flask grinned, single eye open wide to view the completion of his dream.

And as the big, grasping hands curved up towards the heavens with the sound of wails and screams and weeping to serve as their anthem, as the hands swerved and dove into the eye and sent Van Hohenheim spiraling into the white, and even as the homunculus itself was disintegrated, torn apart with no mercy, it smiled.

.

The last thought that echoed through Van Hohenheim's mind as he screamed and was torn apart, was that to his understanding, at the end, you fell into the black. Not into the white.

The last sight that greeted Van Hohenheim's frantic eyes was of the ceiling being blown apart as bloody clouds swirled away from the center of everything, yet he knew that clouds were supposed to be gray, not blood red.

The last sound that assaulted Van Hohenheim's eardrums was of the crackling of alchemical electricity, though he figured that it would be more fitting if it had been ominous music.

What he didn't think of was that, at the end, darkness still lapped at every nerve, that the darkness still crept back after the electricity had died and consumed the country of Xerxes, even if it hadn't consumed him.

What he didn't see was that the clouds stopped swirling and faded to their normal hue once the eye had consumed him and the homunculus.

What he didn't hear was the absolute silence that did a better job than ominous music to convey the terror still whirling through the air like wind.

.

But when he woke, it was to the bright sunlight that was too similar to the disturbing whiteness, it was to the sound of utter and complete despair, it was to the bodies of the King and his master and the other alchemists who had been his only companions.

When he woke, it was to the creeping fear, it was to the sight of death everywhere, it was to the corpses of the entire country of Xerxes, it was to the total solitude that results from being the only living being among the bodies of all his friends.

Everything hurt, and nothing was right.

There was no one left. No human left alive.

Except for him.

The denial of his whispered, anguished question of "Somebody…there must be someone left…" did not come from another human. It came from something that stole the king's robes. It came from something that wore Van Hohenheim's own face. It came from something that spoke in Van Hohenheim's voice, something that smiled with the same smile that had begun the end of the world.

And when Hohenheim looked up at himself, when he stared up at the being who asked him about himself, he came to only one possible conclusion. He came to the only answer that made any sense.

He came to the knowledge that it was not his doppelganger. It was not a lost twin.

He came to the knowledge that his look-alike was none other than the dwarf in the flask, the homunculus who had called him "Blood Brother", the smoky creature who had killed Hohenheim's entire country.

The homunculus had taken Hohenheim's form, and the only reason that Hohenheim was even alive was that he shared blood with the creature. Because Hohenheim's blood had been used to create the dwarf in the flask, his entire country had been killed in one night. Because Hohenheim had been forced to give his blood for his master's alchemical experiments, every person who he had ever known was dead.

And along with this revelation came the voices.

The screaming, sobbing, wailing, shouting, yelling, weeping, pleading voices that started like the low hum of a bee but grew to the ear-shattering crescendo of a banshee shriek. The voices who whispered for help, howled for release, screeched for death, bellowed for family, murmured for Hohenheim's own demise, began their caterwaul in his ears.

He was immortal.

But he was plagued by the knowledge that the destruction of Xerxes and the death of an entire country rested on his shoulders, he was forever haunted by the cries of his people which he could never ease, could never un-hear.

So Van Hohenheim screamed his despair and his fury to the empty sky above the dead city, as the dwarf in the flask who now wore his face smiled at the freedom it had found.

.

The destruction of Van Hohenheim's world had not begun with a bang. Or with a whimper.

It hadn't even begun with a scream.

It had begun, of all things, with a smile.

...

* * *

**AN:**

**I'm not even really sure if I like this.**

**Short, I know, and it probably doesn't make much sense.**

**This isn't really how I normally write things-I tried to make this more flowing and descriptive than a good narrative, but I hope that it is understandable. And I was at a loss as to what genre to put this as. I suppose that tragedy works?**

**I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or the characters from the series.**

**Reviews are always appreciated!**


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